He Who Jumps Into The Void
by Lennelle
Summary: Four times Sam was helpless. Trials, Lucifer, the death of a civilian, after The Cage. Sick/MentallyIll/Hurt!Sam, a little bit of comfort.


Please enjoy this selection of prompt ficlets I filled on tumblr. 100% pure hurt!Sam.

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 **1\. Trials**

It's like the cold has made its home in him, shuddering through his bones and pinching at his skin. His fingers will turn blue, then purple, then black, then they'll peel away like ripe fruit skins. Dean has stripped him down to nothing and Sam shivers on the bed, eyeing the bowl of cool water that his brother is soaking a cloth in. He watches the gentle droplets drip, drip, dripping onto the hard concrete floor of his room and he shivers.

"N-no," Sam says, or he tries, at least, but his jaw is rattling hard enough to grind his teeth. Dean leans forward with the damp, cold cloth looming over Sam's brow.

"You're burning up, Sammy," he says, voice gentler than it's been in a long time. "I need to cool you down."

"No!" Sam manages to use what little strength he has to knock Dean's hand away. He's still shaking, so much that it hurts. He fumbles around for something, anything, to keep himself warm but there's nothing but the soaked mattress underneath him.

He watches Dean retrieve the cloth, the room tilting, the edges of it crinkling with black spots.

"It's okay," Dean says, his voice wobbles in Sam's ears, stretches and springs back again. "Just let me take care of you."

It's like everything is being shouted from the end of a very long tunnel, long enough that Sam can't even see the light. The cold - it's more familiar than the sound of his own voice, more familiar than even Dean.

"He was c-cold," Sam mutters, because… he's not really sure why. He thinks maybe Dean needs to know. "In the c-cage. It - it w-was always cold. It b-burned."

Dean freezes, cloth barely kissing the skin of Sam's forehead. He leans closer, face blurring in and out of focus. Sam can just make out the green of his eyes, brows pulled together tightly.

He presses the cloth to Sam's face and Sam only manages not to cry out because his teeth are frozen together, chattering and drumming throughout his skull.

"I've got you, you hear?" Dean says, voice wavering like static, words dipping in and out of focus. Sam closes his eyes, just for a moment. "I'm going to take care of you. You're gonna be just fine."

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 **2\. Thank You**

It's just like before. One hundred and eighty years - but it felt longer, so much longer - of Lucifer taking all his anger out on Sam's whimpering little soul. Instead of the cage, it's the walls of the bunker. Instead of the bright, blinding light, it's Castiel's face.

"Cas," Sam tries, but he knows he'll get no answer. Lucifer doesn't quite fit inside Jimmy's body the way Cas does. When he smiles, it stretches too wide. Like a glove that doesn't fit right. Sam can see the darkness peaking out from underneath.

"Forget Cas," Lucifer says. He steps closer, and Sam steps away. His back presses up against the wall and there's nowhere he can go. He can feel the panic bubbling under the surface, but he tamps it down. He's beaten the devil before… but this doesn't feel the same. Jumping into the pit was terrifying, but it was pure power. It was free will. Right now, he's a mouse trapped under a cat's claws.

"God said you can't hurt me," Sam says, but his voice is barely above a breathless whisper.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "You really think I give a crap what Dad says?"

Sam knows he cares, but pointing that out right now would probably result in him being spattered along the corridor.

"Do you know what I'm gonna do to you once we've roasted Amara?" Lucifer asks. He leans close enough that Sam can feel his breath on his face. "I'm going to pick up where we left off. You left the cage so abruptly, Sammy. Do you remember what we were in the middle of doing before you left me? You do, don't you?"

Sam can't help nodding, or maybe he's just shaking that much. He remembers every second of the cage. His life topside is just a speck against the vastness of his time in hell. He still forgets, sometimes, that he got out. Right now, he's not so sure. The fingers of his right hand find the tough scar along his left palm and squeeze.

"An eternity won't be enough for you," Lucifer spits, "for what you did to me. I'm going to pull you apart from the inside out. Remember how that feels? It's like carving a pumpkin. I'll light you on fire when I'm done - "

"He can't hurt you," a voice says. Sam and Lucifer turn to see Chuck standing at the other end of the corridor. "He can't lay a finger on you, Sam. I made sure."

The weight of Lucifer is suddenly gone, and Sam can just about see the tail end of the trench coat disappearing around the corner. He can breathe, and he sucks in a gulp of air, dropping down onto his knees. Sam lets himself turn to jelly, melting against the wall, just trying to breathe.

He glances up to meet Chuck's gentle smile. Sam wants to say _where were you?_ He wants to say _why did you leave me down there to suffer?_ He wants to say _why didn't you save me from the cage? Did you think I deserved it?_

What comes out of his mouth is, "Thank you."

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 **3\. Shh... It'll all be over soon**

There isn't much else to say once their eyes turn glassy and their breaths become fewer and further between, and you know they're going to die. This girl is maybe twenty-one years old, she reminds you of Jess, her golden ringlets are untamed and wild just like hers were, she has similar eyes too.

Jess'd had the same frightened look on her face, just like this girl.

You hold her, you aren't sure of her name so you call her sweetheart, and you wish you could say this is the first time a child - because she's really just a child - has died in your arms like this, but you know for certain it won't even be the last.

"Shh… It'll all be over soon," you tell her, because that's all there is to say.

* * *

 **4\. How about we start here?**

Sam won't let anyone touch him, can barely stand anyone being in the same room. He prefers the dark, too. After everything, the last place Dean expected Sam to run to was the panic room.

He tries to spruce it up a little; a small bookshelf at the back and a reading lamp to go with it, a thick wool blanket for the bed, a rug on the floor, angel warding painted on the walls. His efforts end up being for nothing. Sam doesn't touch the books, and he'd rather curl up on the cold concrete floor than sleep on the cot.

He spends a lot of time like that, curled up smaller and tighter than a man that big ought to, and he stares. Not at anything in particular, just the blank space in front of him, eyes wide enough that they're more white than hazel. One week after shoving Sam's mangled soul back into his body and Dean reckons they're doing better than expected. Sam survived. That's what counts.

"I told you," Cas says one evening, after he struck Sam to sleep with two fingers to his forehead, just to make him stop screaming. "I told you that if you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright."

Dean ignores him. Cas is barely around these days, and when he is he's spouting more crap along these lines.

"It's an adjustment," Dean says. "I've been to Hell. Forty years didn't scrub off well, it still hasn't."

"Forty years is nothing in comparison to what Sam experienced, Dean," says Cas. "Sam has lived more than one lifetime down there. I wouldn't be surprised if he's forgotten his life up here."

Dean wants to punch the guy in the face, but it isn't worth broken knuckles. He just ignores him until he hears the soft flap of wings, then he's alone again with his dead-to-the-world little brother.

Cas is wrong. Sam does remember his life, he remembers Dean, sometimes. There are moments when Dean can forget that Sam ever jumped into the hole, when Sam is quick as a whip and smiling and settling back into jerk/bitch like he never left.

And then he'll be gone, and he can't look at Dean's face without yelling his throat raw.

"He might be out of Hell," Bobby says grimly, "but he never left. Not really."

"He'll get better," Dean insists, but it's just a rehearsed line at this point. "Give him time. Sammy's tough. He can deal with this."

"Not when he's down under ground. He won't even step out the door. Don't you see, Dean? He just made himself another cage."

Dean can't listen to any more. He picks the tray off the counter - mashed potatoes and boiled broccoli, a couple of the only things Sam will actually eat - and he heads down to the basement. The door's open, Dean always leaves it open, but there's a soft light coming from inside. He pulls his gun from his belt and tiptoes closer.

It's Sam. He's sitting on the rug under the lamp light, a book open on his lap. Dean lowers his gun, the tray of food tipping and slopping potatoes onto the floor in his other hand. He doesn't want to move in case he disturbs the peace of it, but Sam's the one to break the stillness and turn around to face him.

He's so skinny, cheekbones too sharp and hollow, eyes too shrouded in purples. Still, he smiles, soft enough that his face barely moves.

"I knows these words," he says, voice low and rasping. He trails the tip of his finger across the page of the book. "I recognise them. I just - I don't know what they mean."

Dean is shocked still for a moment. This is the most Sam's spoken since he came back. Dean gently lowers to a crouch beside him and peers at the book. It's Doctor Seuss. _Green Eggs and Ham_ was one of Sam's favourites as a kid.

"It's been so long," Sam whispers. "I've forgotten how to - words didn't mean anything down there."

Dean swallows, lets his shoulder brush Sam's. Sam winces briefly, but he doesn't go scuttling to the other side of the room in fear, he even seems to settle a little, letting out a heavy sigh. Dean places his fingers on the open page, points to the first letter, balances 'I' on the tip of his finger.

"How about we start here?"

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Let me know what you thought! Did you have a favourite?


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